


Tea and Sweets

by face_in_a_jar



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Cooking, F/F, I don't have a very warm opinion of Gilbert, Romantic Friendship, Romantic Letters, Subtle Pining, Title Art, Wholesome, gosh they are just so darn cute, he doesn't show up but my salt is there, timeline from magic academy days to just before time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28054965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/face_in_a_jar/pseuds/face_in_a_jar
Summary: Time passes, and their friendship grows. Time passes, and the world grows less kind. But there is always a place for a warm pot of tea, and a fresh batch of sweets. Yes, that's what they thought back then...
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Tea and Sweets

**Author's Note:**

> Buttshop, thank you! Thank you so much for your drawing! And for editing! And for standing by me when the world is cold and nothing makes sense anymore! --buttshop adds "you can tell i drew this before watching the Great British Baking Show are these even scones or teacakes smdh"
> 
> I think I was shipping MercAnne before Three Houses came out...honestly I was kind of disappointed that they had such an interesting setup without a lot of good follow through. (Don't get me wrong, Three Houses is Super Great.) I was excited for the story of two young woman, constantly jerked around and underestimated by their families, united in being so gosh darn nice. I hope I managed to capture that lost potential in this work.

Annette and Mercedes, like most girls their age, were friends the moment that they met. But what made them the sort of friends they’d be happened on Mercedes’s first birthday at the academy, the one she forgot she told anyone about. Annette knocked on the door to her dorm room, briskly and firmly to the point Mercedes thought she was a teacher. Upon opening the door, she was met by a short girl with a plate of cookies in extended hands, eyes crumpled shut in a bright smile.

“Annie-baked sweets for Mercie Day!” she said, cutesy words in the voice of a sincere adult. Before she could stop herself, Mercedes found herself bursting into a latent fit of giggles—it made a good cover to say, not too long after, “don’t worry dear, they were just tears from laughing so hard.”

The cookies were a little bland, but that’s because Annette had tried to be modest with the butter and sugar (the first mistake you make, especially when you’re trying to be a responsible person). She brewed a pot of ginger tea to add a note of spice, and invited Annette to share her birthday treat. She made sure they both had extra sugar.

🙒🙓🙔🙕

They were both students at the Royal Magic Academy. Annette was a touch too young to be there, and Mercedes was a touch too old, which made for the strangest thing for them to bond over. If anything, they had plenty of insecurities to quietly confide.

“You’re so mature, Mercie,” Annette would say, as she got down on her hands and knees to sweep furiously under Mercedes bed. Mercedes never knew where that girl got so much energy—she was never fond of exercise herself.

“I think you’re just as mature as me,” Mercedes said. “Look how well you’re taking care of our rooms!”

“Oh, I just like stuff like this,” Annette said. “I wish I was as grown up as you.”

“It’ll come in time,” said Mercedes. “I was nowhere near as diligent when I was your age.” She was glad Annette hadn’t known her then. Back when her adoptive father first started talking about marrying her back to nobility. He even badgered her mother to tears, which Mercedes had a hard time forgiving him for.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” said Annette, flashing a carefree grin before getting up and furiously dusting off her skirt. “You’re the nicest person I know. Everyone calls you ‘The Academy Angel’!”

Mercedes couldn’t help but laugh. It was just because she lived at a church for a long time, listening to confessionals and being called for odd jobs for ailing folk. She wasn’t an angel then either—just a lonely girl working for approval. She hoped that was a characteristic she and Annette didn’t share.

Whenever Annette helped her with her chores, she made sure to bake her a loaf of cinnamon blackcurrent bread, glazed with a mix of sugar and apple juice. It went perfect with their favorite tea, a blend of Alberian berry and honey apple. Annette said it was her all time favorite food.

🙒🙓🙔🙕

Annette’s father did not attend her graduation, even though she did so at the top of her class. Mercedes’s adoptive father didn’t come either, but he did send enough money to buy marzipan candies to share. When Mercedes went to Annette’s room, for the first time, she saw her friend in tears.

Mercedes was gobsmacked. Annette kept a smile on even when spells backfired on her and Mercedes needed to rush to her side. She kept her chin up through long nights of cramming, chanting to Mercedes and herself that no matter what, she’d give nothing short of everything she had.

She walked over to Annette’s bed with the poise she had back at the church, a quiet, listening aura that was ready to console when the Goddess felt far away. The minute she sat down next to her, Annette plunged into a hug, and before she knew it, Mercedes was pulling her as close as she could, smothering her friend in an embarrassingly tight hug.

Annette would only let so much out back then, but Mercedes could gather that it was always her father that had encouraged her when it felt like she couldn’t do it. He disappeared without telling her some time ago, for reasons Annette was left to only guess. She knew it was unlikely that he’d return now…

“Annie,” Mercedes said with a bright smile, “do you want to learn how to bake a cake?” Annette was stunned by the sudden proposal, but agreed with a small, confused nod. With that, Mercedes pulled out a pen and paper, hand scribbling a detailed list while her mind could barely plan.

Annette rushed off to the market, sun already setting, to fetch as many of the ingredients she could with the last of Mercedes gift money. Meanwhile, Mercedes raided the cooking room, scrambling for all the pots, pans and tools she could find from the modest school storage. They worked past midnight, as Mercedes taught Annette how to make meringues, separate egg whites, melt the butter just enough so that it would make a crisp, golden crust with the sugar.

The finished product was gargantuan, nearly crumbled on extraction, and the best thing Mercedes had ever cooked. Annette wrote “Happy Annie And Mercie Day!” in messy script on the top. Mercedes carefully lined every marzipan candy around the edge of the frosting. They consumed half the cake immediately after.

Mercedes made a modest pot of chamomile tea for bed. Somehow, it was enough to help Annette get to sleep.

🙒🙓🙔🙕

The two of them promised to write to each other, and they did so faithfully. It was less than a month since they parted when they learned the other was attending Garreg Mach, and the prospect of a reunion was like they had been separated for years. Toward the end of their wait, their promises got borderline silly. _We’ll eat every meal together! We’ll go shopping every break day! I’ll set up a cot so you can sleep next to me every night, Mercie!_

For the days leading up, she felt an odd frustration that she couldn’t put her finger on, which made talking with her family lonely and the daily chores around her father’s shop more tedious. Mercedes didn’t understand exactly what she missed until she arrived at the steps of the monastery, and saw Annette standing primly at the door. She looked like a proper soldier in her dark black uniform and tight-polished boots. Mercedes couldn’t help but feel a jolt of fright.

But then Annette smiled, staring at her with wide, happy eyes.

“Annie!” Mercedes yelled, dropping her suitcase and galloping toward her. It was childish and embarrassing looking back, but not enough to wish it away. Perhaps if she did, she’d lose that moment when Annette blinked in shock, before accepting permission to be just as overjoyed.

“Mercie!”

They almost knocked each other in their embrace, laughing as they spun around once, twice in place to keep their balance. They were in the middle of the entrance path, and students were forced to swing wide and cluster together to avoid them. It was the rudest thing Mercedes had ever done. And it felt so nice not to care.

They ate their first meal together side by side, close enough for their elbows to bump at the table. The meal was delicious, and even though they stuffed themselves, they still managed to devour half a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread in Annette’s room. It made the apple berry tea taste even sweeter, which made the conversation—about lonely rooms, foolish fathers, new recipes, and how excited they still were to see each other again—last even longer.

True to her word, Annie rolled out an overstuffed floor mattress and insisted Mercedes spend the night.

🙒🙓🙔🙕

Both their birthdays were at the start of the school year, and that year was the first Mercedes really noticed her age. Getting older didn’t trouble her, but she was well aware of how conspicuous it was for a woman her age to have a best friend several years her junior. When she admitted it to Annette, she responded with a sage nod and said, “we’re getting to the age where we can share secrets now, can’t we?”

And share they did. Mercedes confessed her deepest, most embarrassing secret after the second fight they ever had. The first was when Annette threatened a thief who harassed them at the market. The other was when she found Annette, running around in the middle of her night, with a wild and sleep-deprived look in her eyes. She swore she glimpsed her father among a crowd of the faithful, and she spent the rest of the day—from lunch to almost midnight—trying to find him. Mercedes said things to console her about her father that were really about her own.

“Both those fights were about the same thing, now that I think about it,” she said, a heavy gaze over the spires of the monastery that loomed in the distance. “I worry about you, Annie.”

“I know,” Annette said. “And I’m really sorry. I know I can get really bone-headed when I get my mind stuck on something.”

“It’s not quite that,” said Mercedes. “I guess I just…it’s more about your soul.”

“My soul?” asked Annie. She knew that Mercedes was dead serious, but she couldn’t hold back a quick, adorable look at herself, like a troubled soul was the same as a shirt stain. “Is there something bad about my soul?”

“Not at all—every day, you give every bit of it,” said Mercedes. She felt her cheeks burn in shame, realizing how easy it was to use good deeds and kind words to keep your deepest parts at a safe distance. “And I’m scared you get hurt for it.”

Annette stared at her, looking weighed by her own confession. “I think you’re right,” she said, “I know I can’t solve all my problems by working myself into the dirt. But I still try, every time.”

“I think you’re a better person than me,” Mercedes said, “and I get jealous.”

Mercedes hadn’t realized it herself until she heard her words tumbling out. But she envied Annette’s ability to give her best, over and over again. She envied the soul that was hurt and betrayed many times over, but still charged back in. Mercedes longed for that kind of courage; even now, she couldn’t leave home without fearing she’d never come back.

Annette squeezed her hand tighter, and walked so close next to her that she was practically hugging her arm. In her mortification, Mercedes felt a burn of happiness. She was certain that confessionals were supposed to make you feel at peace, enlightened—but not _giddy_.

After that day, the two shared many secrets. Late into the night, they talked about how their fathers made their mothers cry, as a way to say that their fathers had made them cry. They talked about the many people that told them they couldn’t. They told each other about how they wished that their parents actually acted like parents, and not benefactors, or auctioneers, or so fragile that even giving an apology would wound their pride. And good heavens, at the very least, they ought not be their children’s enemies.

But no matter how sad the stories, Mercedes would still end the night with that same giddiness. It made her hope that Annette would let her sleep over, and then made her feel like she needed to decline when Annette did. It made her stare at Annette’s hand every once in awhile, wondering if she should hold it.

Whenever Mercedes told Annette her secrets, Annette always made a whole pot of Alberian berry tea -- no honey apple. It was her favorite, but for some reason she liked their mix better.

🙒🙓🙔🙕

The Goddess filled those days with blessings. Annette introduced her to sad and painful truths. Annette introduced her to getting angry over stupid things, and apologizing when she felt so utterly foolish for even getting there. She introduced her to many mistakes—some of them Annie’s, some of them hers. And because of that, her life was full of joy.

She couldn’t explain if asked, but her life at Garreg Mach was one she wished she could share with everyone. She wished everyone got to enjoy the impromptu fishing contest. Neither her nor Annette were particularly good at fishing, but they still shared a borrowed pole and tried to find a patch of pier that wasn’t overrun with other eager contenders. Mercedes caught only a few middling perch, but she still screamed at every bite on the line, worried it would be enough to tug her off the rocky edge and into the water. Annette always grabbed her to brace her, which would send them both into mad laughter.

She wished she could share the choir practices they had together. It was a solemn prayer to the goddess, but despite some degree of piety, Annette used it mostly as an opportunity to indulge in her secret love of singing. And she did so often eagerly and energetically, eliciting an occasional dark glare from the somber devouts, which would annoy Mercedes despite herself. Mercedes learned a lot about how to enjoy singing—like to sing deep from within the core of her belly, where all those quiet loves she felt already happily nestled.

And yes, she’d want to share those feelings at the ball too. How she felt herself so easily carried into the one dance Annette and her indulged in. She was well aware of the implications of what she was doing, as the ballroom floor swirled with eager couples and shy suiters. But staring face to face with Annette, their fingers intertwined as they spun slowly to the sound of the joyful band, made Mercedes understand what it was like to love a friend.

In those prisms of her memory, she didn’t yearn for vows or kisses, didn’t burn from what she did not have. Surely, it was not like the goddesses’s love, free from all want and selfishness—but the sheer joy she felt made it seem just as sacrilegious to deny her hand.

🙒🙓🙔🙕

She would not, however, share the moment when Annette grabbed her hand Garreg Mach fell, and the image of the Immaculate One stretched across the sky. Most of the professors were missing, Annette’s father had just retreated, and Mercedes caught a good look at who the Death Knight really was.

“Annie! What are you doing?!”

Annette said something that Mercedes couldn’t quite remember in detail. But she must have known what it was about, as Annette charged down the deep slopes surrounding the monastery, the crashing wave of crumbling home barreling from behind.

And yet somehow, even though they must have been running for days, and no doubt needing to stop and rest, Mercedes wondered if they had simply run nonstop, hand in hand, side by side. Annette would also insist later that her original intention was to take Mercedes to House Dominique. And yet, Mercedes remembered so sharply when they arrived at the steps of the church in the capital where she once stayed, that it felt like the two of them were safely returning home.

🙒🙓🙔🙕

It was six months after their arrival that the letter from Mercede’s father arrived. It was written with the polite judgement only a parent could create.

Annette was the first person to know about it, and naturally, was the first person who condemned it. “Ugh, he just wants you in husband-marrying distance,” she huffed, carrying a topheavy basket alongside Mercedes filled with laundry to hang to dry. “Want me to set it on fire?” She gave a devious little chuckle, before her face faded to a guilty smile—still too good a person for that kind of spite.

But the letter struck all the words that were looming in Mercedes’ mind. She had a home to go home to, and a safe means to stay alive; much more than many of the refugees at the church. She and Annette worked from dawn to dark to cook meals, mend clothes, heal the sick, tended to the children. But they were sharing everything as before, be they meals, chores, or warm counsel and good nights in their room before blowing out the candle.

Her father accused her of treating a war zone like she was still at school. In her heart of hearts, she knew he was right.

She didn’t know what she expected when she finally made her decision. Annette, as always, was the first to know. And she took it the worst.

“He doesn’t care about anyone here, Mercie!” Annette cried, waving her hand wide around the room, as they sat facing each other from the ends of their respective beds. “He just wants to get ahead!”

“But he’s still right,” said Mercedes. She kept her voice even and calm. If someone had seen them, they’d think that her distance was a kindness to Annette. They would be wrong. “My meals and my bed can go to someone who really needs it.”

“I know,” Annette said, eyes darting in fury at the hands balled in her lap. “I know!” she said again, scolding herself. “But he’s just—he doesn’t care! He says he does, but—!”

Her voice hitched in her throat.

“He’s acting just like my father,” she said, silent tears pouring down the corners of eyes pinched in silent fury, “and I hate him for it.”

And with that, Mercedes lost everything. She felt as if she collapsed into herself, screaming sobs flying at the walls that she didn’t know were there. Annette should have been mad at her. Because she was a hypocrite. Because for years, she’d been worried and teaching Annette to never do what she was all but doomed to.

She didn’t know when she noticed that her face was against Annette’s chest, who was kneeling down to pull her tears into her shoulder. Annette gave long strokes at the bottom of her head, fingers occasionally lacing through hair and touching skin. It was the first time she did that—and noticing it was another thing Mercedes regretted.

On the day before Annette left for House Dominique, Mercedes had half a mind to bake a cake that would go well with apple berry tea. She was too exhausted to go through with it.

🙒🙓🙔🙕

Just as before, they wrote to each other faithfully. Instead of grand promises, they shared simple statements of fact. House Dominique was not of great military or political significance, but no family was free from danger. Still, Annette assured, if a battle were to break out in her fields, she’d probably be the last they’d need to take arms. (“And not just because I was always better and cleaning than magic,” she wrote once as a wry joke).

Mercedes, much the same, was as safe as she could be. Contrary to popular opinion, war did not make for good business. But her family was well off, and her mother was safe. It was easy enough to oversee numbers and cargo, and every time she had spare time, she happily volunteered at a local parish.

 _I’m living the best I can hope for_ , she wrote once, _but my darling Annie, sometimes your letters feel like the only joy there is in this world._

She still remembered what Annette wrote in response: _Then I will write to you until the day I die_.

🙒🙓🙔🙕

It was a little more than four years after they parted that, for the first time in a long time, Annette made Mercedes a grand promise. She was journeying to the capital to pick Mercedes up. _Mercie, let’s go to the Millenial Festival together._

Garreg Mach was little more than a ruin. And being on the border between the Kingdom and the Empire, the dangers of lawlessness was the kindest they had to hope for. Mercedes felt an old twinge of stubbornness reignite, start to pen a letter telling her to not leave home. She didn’t know what stopped her from sending it.

Just enough time passed for her to feel guilty when her father announced that Annette of House Dominique was in the capital, and requesting that they speak. Mercedes returned the message with a polite decline, encouraging Annette to do only what would assure her absolute safety. It was the lowest, most cowardly thing Mercedes had ever done.

For the rest of the day, her hands flipped through sales rosters and didn’t read a single word. She swept the same ten feet of floor at the main shop. Twice, in a quiet moment, she prayed the goddess would forgive her.

It was at the end of the day, when she retired to her room, that there was a knock at the bedroom door. Her father carried a battered box, a worn frown still laced with annoyance managing through.

“According to the messenger,” he said, handing them over to Mercedes, and then removing a small, sealed letter from his coat, “The Niece of Baron Dominique insisted you have these.”

He didn’t bother to say much after that, leaving Mercedes to hold a simple pack piled high with fresh-baked cookies. Butter and sugar were not easy to find, and Mercedes marveled at the replacements to the recipe. The cookies had a rosy tint of oil replaced with juiced tomato. They smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg, with just a hint of vinegar.

 _I was too stubborn to cook you these as a goodbye present at the church,_ her note said. _I’m so sorry. I’ll always love you, Mercie._

Mercedes got up as she read it, folding the letter carefully and placing it into her pocket. It was the only gentle thing she did, as she tore open her dressers and pulled out her clothes, stuffed them into her suitcase with the most minimal of folding. It barely shut, forcing her to leave it twice to search downstairs, for a small sachet for the cookies, and a long forgotten tea tin. Her father barked something at her as her footfalls thundered down the stairs.

 _I love you too_ , Mercedes thought, as she shut the door behind her, and carried her wares off into the night. _I love you too, Annie_. There was a time when she would have to apologize. And when that time came, a single apology wouldn’t do. One day, her heart would catch up to her, and all those feelings she forgot—loneliness, sadness, and a great and terrible need—would catch up to her.

But these cookies were too well made. They needed to be shared, with a pot of honey apple tea, at the Millennial Festival. Together, with Annette.

**Author's Note:**

> Damn you anime ages! Why do you keep making me ship a late teen/early twenty something character set together? I mean yeah, Fire Emblem's character ages are nothing but hot teenagers and hot mid-to-late-twenty-somethings, so I'm already kind of screwed, but still! Ah well, it's fine. That's what head canon's for. Annette are Mercedes are only 2-3 years apart. Also, they don't get into any shenanigans until they're in their forties, after meticulously double-birding every shitty marriage offer that comes their way out of spite. That's muh girls.
> 
> Anyway, I'm thinking of doing more fanfics--anything you guys really want to see? I'm obviously in the FE fandom hardcore, and I have a love/hate relationship with the Tales series as a whole. I've also gotten into the Ace Attorney series lately, of all things?! Anyway, I just like hearing from y'all, so let me know.


End file.
